


Agânith

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Domesticity, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Platonic Life Partners, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin has just returned home when he finds Thorin on his doorstep, with an invitation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Agânith

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to canadasuperhero for betaing, and for bullying me into the fandom in the first place.

The wind is howling, flapping against the shutters of the house, and Dwalin is glad he was able to arrive home before nightfall. The days are growing shorter, and the wind has a cruel bite to it of late; winter will soon be upon them. He has already lit the hearth in the sitting room, and he is looking forward to a good, hot meal in front of it. The Dwarf stomps his feet and bends down to light the fire beneath the stove.

With a satisfying pop, the flame catches, and Dwalin grunts approvingly and straightens. His house is small and mostly empty. His bread and butter is won by guarding trading caravans, and thus he tends to be away from home for all but the darkest winter months, but the fires are doing their best now to chase away the shadows and the musty smell that hangs in the air. He pours himself an ale and unwraps the cut of beef he purchased on the way home. The knife makes a loud thwack against the table—the only sound in the empty house, and a welcome one. Dwalin sweeps the chunks of meat into a heavy-bottomed pan, and he has just set the pan over the fire when there is a firm knock on the door.

“Been in the house three bloody minutes,” he murmurs to himself when he goes to answer it.

The wind nips at his fingers the moment the door opens, and firelight spills into the darkness. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust; when they do, he can just make out a familiar dark shape, the principal part of which is a mass of thick black hair, barely pushed out of its owner’s face.

“By Mahal’s blessed toes,” he says with a slow grin. “The great Thorin Oakenshield on my doorstep.”

“Dwalin,” the Dwarf says with a half-smile. “Am I to be _left_ on your doorstep all night?”

Dwalin laughs heartily and steers his king into the house. He clasps both of Thorin’s shoulders and taps their foreheads together—gently, because while he is confident that Thorin is just as hard-headed as Balin, he doesn’t want to break his king. Thorin’s skin is cold, but Dwalin lingers for half a moment as the chill breath against his cheek assures him that Thorin is alive and uninjured. Whenever Thorin is wounded, there is a certain hitch to his breath that Dwalin has become frustratingly familiar with.

Thorin allows him the indulgence and then, in gruff Khuzdul, reprimands Dwalin for fussing.

“Is there food? I’m starving,” he says as he draws back and sweeps off his cloak.

“And ye wonder why people worry!”

“Something hot, if you please,” Thorin says, stubbornly ignoring him and stamping into the sitting room.

Dwalin chuckles to himself as he goes back into the kitchen and adds more wine to the pot. He chops the vegetables expertly and tries not to think of his parents. Way back, when they yet lived in the comfort and safety of Erebor’s halls, his mother had made frequent trips to the Iron Hills for trading. She was gone for long months at a time, usually; even with the trails of Mirkwood open to them, the route was perilous. Ach, she had been a fierce Dwarf—fiercer than any woman he has ever known. Dwalin remembers his father, one of Thrain's guards, and the soft look in his iron eyes whenever his wife returned home. He can remember, as a wee dwarfling, standing on the tips of his toes to watch his father's practice hand guide his cooking knives with expert precision, and listening to the low hum of his voice as he kept pace with the rhythm.

Those were good days, before the Dragon came, when their rooms felt like home and they could speak of family without thinking of how it was broken. His parents both died years ago—his father at Erebor, his mother at Khazad-Dum—but when given a chance, Dwalin likes to think of his mother shuffling off her cloak after a wearying day of travel, her gaze alighting on her One and her children with delight, and of his father preparing dinner and singing those low reunion songs.

He wonders, sometimes, if he could have had a life like that. If things had gone differently. Dwalin glances at the sitting room, where he can just barely see the firelight glinting off of unfamiliar lines of silver in Thorin's hair, and decides that it's something best not thought about.

“I stopped in at the Smiling Hawk on my way here,” Thorin calls. “Dolgi said you were away.”

“Dolgi’s an old fool, inn’e?”

“How long have you been back, then?”

“A good five minutes.”

Dwalin hears the low rumble of Thorin’s laugh, and grins as he effortlessly swings the great iron cauldron over the fire. Then he fills two mugs with ale and takes them into the living room. Thorin has settled into an arm chair close by the fire—the most comfortable one, and well he knows it. Dwalin shakes his head fondly and sits down in the second-most comfortable chair, handing over the mug. Thorin accepts it with a murmured word of thanks.

“How long has it been, Dwalin?” he asks thoughtfully.

“Oh, a fair age,” Dwalin says easily. “You've gone and gotten old since last we met.”

Thorin brushes back the silver in his hair with a shrug.

“Not as old as your brother,” he says with a wicked grin.

“ _Durin_ isn't as old as Balin,” Dwalin snorts. “Speaking of which, how're those nephews of yours? Must be getting on in years themselves, eh?”

“Aye,” Thorin says, and his face softens.

He sits back and tries to pretend like he's not the fondest, most ridiculous uncle Dwalin's ever seen--and Dwarves tend to be quite ridiculous over their young. He teases Dwalin, tells him that Kili's near as tall as he is now (still skinny as a reed, though), and then admits that his nephew's not likely to grow anymore. Dwalin shakes his head when he realizes that both boys are of legal age now. The wee little buggers he taught how to hold knives without stabbing themselves—he can hardly believe it.

Dwalin brings in the stew, and a fresh loaf of bread, and more ale, as they talk seriously of friends and politics and business. On Thorin's part, this involves many heated oaths against stubborn, old-fashioned Dwarves who are slow to change, and Men who don't understand the value of Dwarf-work, and Elves, who are Elves. Several times, he nearly touches on Erebor, but carefully steers the conversation away. Dwalin notes it, but he senses something greater lurks beneath Thorin's words, and for now he lets it lie. Instead he tells him of his latest journeys and the few good fights he's had. They trade travelling songs, and eventually light a pipe and let the conversation fade.

Dwalin closes his eyes for a moment and tries to remember when he first realized that he loved Thorin. Ah, it was years ago now—truth be told, he can't remember a moment when he wasn't bound to his king, body and soul, but he has a vague recollection of a night like this, with good food and a raging fire, and a tight constriction around his heart. He was afraid, then, he thinks with amusement. Dwarves falling in love is a dangerous thing, and he had thought that perhaps it might consume him... or that he might not survive life without Thorin.

Foolishness, he thinks, and smoke spills from his mouth as he chuckles. Far more likely that Thorin can't survive without him. Bless him, Thorin has a wonderful protective instinct, but he is not a creature built for self-preservation. That is Dwalin’s duty, to keep him safe, and one that Thorin would never ask him to abandon. He trusts him too deeply for that.

“Now then,” Thorin says crisply, as though shaking himself out of a deep reverie. “To business.”

“Do we have business?”

“Aye, that we do.” Thorin leans on the arm of his chair. His fist is clenched and his eyes are grave. “Your brother thinks it foolish... but I need not hide my heart from you. You know I yet dream of Erebor.”

Dwalin nods.

“'Tis the place of our birth—the home of our histories, the grave of our forefathers. The seat of my king,” he says, raising his ale. Thorin's face is inscrutable, but Dwalin can see his straight back slump slightly in relief. “I have never doubted ye would want to reclaim it.”

“I do,” Thorin says quietly. “I did not know when, nor how—but that has changed.”

Slowly, Dwalin sets his mug on the table and leans forward. The fire is lower than it was when Thorin arrives, and the room seems colder again.

“Has it, now.”

“Ten days past, I had a visit from Oin and Gloin. Gloin has contacts in Laketown—trading routes, you know.”

“Aye.”

“He says there is talk of the birds returning to the mountain. And Oin says the return of the birds is a sign… the reign of the dragon is ending.”

Dwalin’s heart leaps. The mountain—can it truly be within their grasp? He leans back in his chair and blows a smoke ring, thinking of the dragon’s fire.

“With all respect, Thorin,” he says gravely. “Are you willing to risk the lives of our people on a rumor interpreted by a half-deaf apothecary?”

“No, I am not. But then, not two days later, I met Tharkûn upon the road. He has offered wise counsel in the past, and the fate of my father and my grandfather is known to him, so I saw no reason to withhold Oin’s portents from him. Gandalf—that is how he is known in the common tongue—agrees that the time for retaking Erebor approaches.”

“Mahal save us,” Dwalin breathes. “We need more ale.”

He stands and goes into the kitchen to refill their mugs. His hands shake, and he stares at them firmly until they still—this is no time to give in to old nightmares. He returns to the sitting room, his heavy boots stomping on the floor, and hands one of the mugs to Thorin.

“Right,” he says crisply. “Your thoughts?”

“A small company,” Thorin says immediately. “I will not risk another Azanulbizar. If we can raise a small army to follow behind, all the better, but I would take no more than twenty on the initial journey and surveillance. Gandalf will join me, when he can.”

“And the others? Fili is your heir—he ought to be included, if he will.”

“He will.” A wry smile twists Thorin’s lips. “With his brother stuck to his heel, if I know them at all.”

“Some wisdom will not go amiss, either. Have you spoken to Balin?”

“Nay, not yet. Your brother is practical. I thought it best to approach him when my numbers were larger, and harder to dismiss.”

“There's wisdom in that itself,” Dwalin mutters.

In his mind, he's racing through Dwarves that he knows. His thoughts alight on and depart from them rapidly; one too cowardly, another too reckless, one too old, one too scatter-brained, one too self-absorbed. Far too many who would not see the point. It has been said, often, that Dwarves are not heroes, and this is true. Even Thorin, for all his sense of honor and love for his people, is less foolhardy and more shrewd than the average king of Men. But Dwalin wants heroes at his back—not heroes as they exist in stories, but true heroes willing to lay down their lives for king and kin. Erebor deserves no less.

After a moment, he feels eyes upon him. He looks up to see that Thorin is staring at him, waiting, and he shifts in his chair.

“What?”

“You are missing someone.”

“Am I?”

“Aye. There is one who must join me first, if this mad plan is to bear any fruit.”

He thinks for a minute, and says slowly “Oin and Gloin, I suppose, since they...” Thorin shakes his head, and Dwalin trails off. “Well if I’m missing the proper Dwarf, give him a name and we'll have it, then,” he snaps, annoyed.

Thorin rolls his eyes and holds out his arm.

“Dwalin, son of Fundin,” he says deliberately. “Will you join my company?”

For a second, he almost wants to laugh. Dear Thorin, who always moaned and groaned his way through public ceremonies when he was the crown prince, is speaking in formal tones that would have once bored him to tears. There is silver trailing through his hair, and he hasn't braided his beard in decades. It's incredible, how much the years have changed him--Dwalin too—but he can't laugh, because Thorin's eyes are dark with solemn purpose. The fire crackles, and Dwalin thinks that his answer now may impact Dwarves across the realm and throughout the years.

Of course, there has only ever been one answer.

“I am with you, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror. King Under the Mountain,” he says in a soft, rumbling voice, clasping Thorin's forearm. “I swore myself in your service—be it down the road or to the depths of Khazad-Dum or up to the filthy lizard's very nose, I will follow.”

Thorin's eyes soften, and his other hand comes up to rest on Dwalin's shoulder.

“My dear Dwalin...” he murmurs.

Slowly, unbearably slow, he leans forward and kisses his forehead. Dwalin's eyes fall shut and his heart constricts. Thorin knows. He _knows_. The tenderness in his touch is painful, and he thinks that he might almost prefer if they could have gone through life without discussing it. He will be at Thorin's side, as often as he can—is that not enough?

Then Thorin draws back, and Dwalin regrets his reaction. The firelight flickers in Thorin's eyes, still resting on him, and Dwalin feels... loved. And humble, to be loved by such a Dwarf. Dwalin is no fool, blind to Thorin's flaws. He knows that his One can be arrogant and prejudiced and stubborn to a fault. But he has seen him with his nephews and his sister and even strange Dwarrow, who have no claim to him except race, and how kind he can be. He has seen Thorin at his most vulnerable, when his wounds are raw and painful, and he knows that to be capable of love and trust after losing so much is rare. He is not a perfect Dwarf, but he is a good one, and Dwalin is proud to serve him, despite it all.

“I wonder, sometimes, if I ought to release you from that oath... if you might be better off finding a home, a craft. Children.” Dwalin snorts, and Thorin smiles. “Laugh if you will, bahel, but my nephews were always quite fond of you—you made an admirable child-minder, and I have no doubt you would have made an admirable father. You always had more patience than I.”

Dwalin laughs again.

“Even Fili always had more patience than you. Not Kili, thank the stars, or we’d all be dead ten times over.”

Thorin's mouth twitches.

“Perhaps. At any rate, though, I am too selfish to banish you from my side. I will need you there, if we are truly to retake our home.”

“And I am not selfish enough to go. But come—no good comes of planning bold deeds by a dimming fire. In the morning our heads will be clear, and we shall begin to draw the plans. I can offer you a bed without rats, which is better than the Smiling Hawk can do.”

“I will gladly take it. It has been a wearing ten days.”

“Wearing months will follow, I don’t doubt,” Dwalin says grimly. “But at the end of them, the mountain and the gold will be in proper hands. And p’raps we’ll be able to add a few more titles onto that name of yours, eh, Oakenshield?”

Thorin stands and rolls his eyes. He pats Dwalin’s shoulder as he walks by.

“Second on the left?”

“Aye.”

“My thanks.”

Dwalin remains seated, his mind a whirl of thoughts. The dragon, his parents, the glint of gold in firelight, the scent of blood on iron. The silver in Thorin’s hair and the biting wind. After a few long moments, the fire dies down, and he heads off to his own bed for the first good night’s sleep he has had in weeks. 


End file.
